


Mischief Tattoo

by tiniestawoo, wolfscrow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Addiction recovery, Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Banshee Lydia Martin, Drug Addiction, F/F, F/M, Gen, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Panic Attacks, Piercer Vernon Boyd, Rehab, Tattoo AU, Tattoo Artist Lydia Martin, Tattoo Artist Peter Hale, Tattoo Artist Stiles Stilinski, thoughts of relapse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25709620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/pseuds/tiniestawoo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfscrow/pseuds/wolfscrow
Summary: It was nestled into the almost-a-downtown district of Beacon Hills. If Stiles ever made it past the front door, he knew the walls were lined with bold, traditional artwork. There were some portraits, some Japanese style flash sheets, and even a sheet of new school from a time when his mom was feeling particularly creative.--Or the one where Stiles is a Tattoo Artist who comes home to reclaim the shop his mother once owned.an ongoing collaborative Fan Art / Fanfiction universe.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes
Comments: 87
Kudos: 225





	1. Mischief Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, and welcome to the collaborative effort between Caden (zyndaquilz/pinknogitsune) and Ceej (tiniestawoo)!
> 
> Welcome to the world of Mischief Tattoo, a teen wolf AU that is drawn by Caden and written by Ceej and Caden. We hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> Any questions can be directed to the ask box on the blog! [Here's a Link!](https://mischieftattoo.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Things are almost always posted there first, but they'll migrate to AO3 as soon as we can move them over. The rating on this **will likely change** over time. We'll be sure to note any content warnings or mentions of smut in the chapter summaries where relevant!

Stiles stared at the door for a long time, glancing at the dusty curtains behind the glass, and the half-lit neon sign that still proclaimed the name of the shop:

**Mischief Tattoo**

It was nestled into the almost-a-downtown district of Beacon Hills. If Stiles ever made it past the front door, he knew the walls were lined with bold, traditional artwork. There were some portraits, some Japanese style flash sheets, and even a sheet of new school from a time when his mom was feeling particularly creative.

Mischief Tattoo had been a home away from home, an escape from the day-to-day life of a 5, 6, 7, 8-year-old until one day, his mom had stopped, stared down at the design she was working on for a client and set down her pencil. She'd turned to Stiles with confusion in her eyes and that had been only a hint of what to come.

After a barrage of doctor's visits, Noah had reached out to the other artists at Mischief to suggest they look elsewhere for work. Despite offers, he couldn't bring himself to sell it to any of them. He'd just come by the shop once the last artist had cleared out their things, locked the doors and then returned to the hospital.

That was twenty years ago now. Stiles was an adult, had paid his dues as an apprentice and then spent eight years of tattooing once he'd been set free to leave permanent marks on the world. It was a part of him, something he'd always felt drawn to. The buzz blurred the lines of reality and otherness for him. His ability to hyperfocus focus on what he was creating on someone else's body became a strength rather than weakness. When he was in the moment it was like his mom was _right there_ , guiding every stroke of his pen or drag of the needle.

For twenty years, Mischief Tattoo had sat empty. Purple decorations and dust and ghosts watched as the town moved around it, became larger, got new people, new names. Newcomers often questioned what the old tattoo shop was still doing there, why someone hadn't bought out the storefront.

Stiles knew.

He knew that in a lucid moment, Claudia had begged her husband to keep it safe, to give it to Stiles one day, so she could leave a legacy. She didn't want to be forgotten the way she was forgetting everything around her.

With uncharacteristically shaky hands Stiles stepped forward and unlocked the door, staring at the painfully familiar studio. With the hint of tears in his eyes a tiny laugh bubbled out of his chest, and to no one he said, "I'm home, Mom."


	2. Antares

When Stiles was 18 he took his battered old jeep and drove to Sacramento. In the backseat sat an old chest that was once his mother's, filled with cash from mowing lawns and babysitting the neighbor kids. A giddy grin was stretched on his face the entire time Roscoe flew down the I-5. **  
**

In his glove box sat a sketchbook, filled to the brim with colorful pages and pencil scratches. The black cover of it was dutifully signed in beautiful, flowing golden script; Claudia Stilinksi.

Stiles knew better than to pull up to the first tattoo parlor he found. He’d spent hours on the internet scouring instagram and facebook and finding an artist that he thought came within a mile of what he remembered his mother could do. With the money chest emptied of its bills, he took a moment to look through the book, taking in the detail of his mother's sketches and art.

He flipped to the marked page, on which sits a piece of his mothers' design. A jewel encrusted scorpion laid on his mother's favorite flowers, purple cosmos flowers . Branded onto the cephalothorax in the place of eyes was the sign of scorpio, the minim a shade of blue bordering on turquoise.

Scott sat in the passenger seat, knee bouncing. “Where did you say you were getting this tattoo?”  
  
Stiles turned to him with a smirk. “I didn’t.”

When they left for home, Stiles had saran wrap around his throat. His neck throbbed with the dull ache and irritation of the tattoo now placed there; A striking scorpion poised at his jugular.

Scott was pointedly silent for the entire drive back to Beacon Hills. There were only so many times he could tell his best friend, "this is a really bad idea," and be ignored before he just gave up.

And now despite his resistance, Stiles had a plastic wrapped, rapidly swelling neck and a shit-eating grin on his face.

When they pulled into the driveway at Stiles's house, Scott jumped gleefully out of the passenger's seat and headed into the house ahead of Stiles, aiming to get the best vantage point for the absolute shit fit the Sheriff was about to throw.

Stiles walked into the house a moment later, shit-eating grin mildly diminished but the sparkle in his eyes still bright. Noah looked up from the dinner table and stared at his son for a long time, slipping reading glasses off and narrowing his eyes.

Scott waited for it, waited for the inevitable, "are you out of your mind???" but it ... doesn't come.

A smile spread across Noah's face and he shook his head slowly, motioning at Stiles’s neck with his glasses. "Well, go wash it so I can get a look at it." There was something that _might_ have been tears sparkling in Noah's eyes.

Scott gaped as Noah casually went back to his paperwork and Stiles headed into the bathroom to wipe away the now-dried blood and serum that had seeped out on the drive. He patted it dry with fresh paper towels and dug out a freshly purchased tube of Aquaphor before returning to the table, tilting his head up so his dad could get a look.

Noah studied the scorpion for a long time and then reached out to grab his son's hand, squeezing it. "She'd love it."

Stiles nodded, pressed his lips together and then said, "she drew it."


	3. Brothers

There was a 20-year-thick layer of dust on every surface and just walking in was enough to make Stiles sneeze. His father had been back every now and then – once a year or so – to turn on the sinks and make sure the toilet was still flushing. He’d come by right after Claudia had passed to collect all the sketchbooks she’d left lying around and bring them home. Most of them were in a safe deposit box now, Stiles and Noah both unwilling to risk anything happening to them.

Absently, Stiles’s left hand found the scorpion on his throat and his lips quirked up into a smile. It had been his statement to the world that he was Claudia Stilinski’s son and he was going to continue her legacy. The artist had looked at him like he’d grown antlers, an 18-year-old boy wanting a giant colorful tattoo on his throat.

Convincing him hadn’t been easy until Stiles had mentioned Claudia’s name, and then the artist’s face had gone soft, somber. Only then had the artist agreed to do the tattoo, grabbing the sketchbook from Stiles and sitting down with a piece of tracing paper. 

[[MORE]]

Everyone knew about Claudia. She was a mage, emissary to the Hale Pack and a talented, vivacious tattoo artist who had been taken too soon by a disease that rarely took young people. The doctors had been helpless to stop it’s progression, and even magic couldn’t save her. 

She’d left behind her husband and young son and the artists working with her had been forced to scatter to various parts of California and the country. The scorpion was far from the only tattoo he’d collected over the years, but it was usually the first one people noticed, and it was the one he had always been the most connected to. Antares had been the beginning of the path that led him to where he was now; walking around his mother’s shop, glancing at the art on the walls and the outdated decorations, ideas flowing in his head about the next steps.

A sneeze behind him caused him to jump, and he spun around quickly.

Scott McCall stared back at him with a bright smile, and Stiles mirrored it as he stepped forward to wrap his arms around his best friend. Scott had never been one to shirk affection, and Stiles was more thankful than he could say that Scott was here after all of these years. He’d been bitten six years ago; just after graduating with his undergraduate degree. The territory alpha, Talia Hale, had agreed to bite Scott in order to offer him relief from the asthma that had plagued him his entire life. 

Scott had promptly shocked the entire magical world by, near the end of his first year as a werewolf, suddenly sporting a pair of bright, alpha-red eyes. Stiles remembered the call distinctly, remembered the panic and fear in Scott’s voice. Stiles couldn’t blame him at all.

Stiles had turned away from magic after his mother’s death. Many, many people had approached him over the years with offers to teach him, including Alan Deaton, who had succeeded his mother as the Hale Pack emissary. Stiles had refused all of them. Magic was useless to Stiles. The magical community, his mother’s precious werewolf pack, None of it had saved his mother, it hadn’t even offered her hope. He didn’t see the point in bothering with it.

“God, I can’t believe I’m really doing this.” Stiles said, stepping out of the hug but keeping both of his hands on Scott’s shoulders. 

“I mean, it’s always been your dream, right? Come home, start Mischief back up, continue her legacy?” Scott’s eyes wandered the expanse of the room. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to pass a health inspection right now, though.”

Stiles snorted, “I mean, yeah I should probably get rid of the dust.” He sighed heavily. “Are you here to help?”

“You know you could just….like, use magic to knock the dust away, right?” Scott said quietly. “It would take five seconds.”

Stiles fixed him with a glare. Scott had joined the world, in the five years he’d been an alpha, in trying to convince Stiles to learn to use his magic. 

Stiles knew that it was because Scott felt strongly that Stiles was meant to be his emissary, but it didn’t matter. That door had been closed years ago, and he didn’t intend to open it.

Scott held up both hands in defeat, “Where’s the duster?”

-

Stiles had done Scott’s first tattoo a few years into working at the shop he’d been at in Sacramento. Scott had decided to give in and get a tattoo when he’d graduated from his pre-vet program, and got accepted into vet school. They’d done it a week before he took the bite, knowing that tattooing werewolves became more complicated. To this day, Stiles hated the tattoo, a pair of black bands encircling Scott’s left bicep, but he loved Scott, so he’d done it without complaint.

Melissa and Scott McCall had been Stiles’s family for as long as he could remember. Stiles didn’t have a lot of blood family. After his mom died, he’d had his dad, and a grandfather in a nursing home he visited once a year for holidays, and that was really it. The Hales had tried to reach out to the Stilinskis over the years, but with one exception – Derek had also just been a kid when Claudia had died, Stiles couldn’t really hold him responsible for his mother’s lack of action – Stiles had shunned the attention. 

When Stiles’s dad and Scott’s mom had announced that they were seeing each other, Scott and Stiles couldn’t have been more excited at the prospect that they were finally going to be brothers for real. It had the added bonus of ensuring that someone else was focused on Stiles’s father’s health, which had become important when Stiles moved away for his internships and to work at his first shop.

“Are you gonna hire any other artists?” Scott asked, sitting in the tall chair behind the main desk of Mischief, spinning slowly in circles.

“I’m not sure, why? Do you know of people looking for a job?” Stiles asked, carefully sliding a sheet of his own flash into one of the hanging frames. 

“I might,” Scott said, nonchalantly. “I might know of a few people, actually.”

Stiles snorted, “Do people often come to the vet clinic looking for jobs in tattoo shops?”

“No, just, people I know.”

Stiles finished tucking the art into the frame and reached for the rag in his back pocket, wiping down the edges til the black shined. 

“Who?” he asked, turning to face Scott.

“Well…There’s Boyd. He’s in my pack, and he went to high school with us. He’s a piercer. He works in Sacramento four days a week and Erica – Erica Reyes, she also got a medicinal bite, also in my pack – complains all the time about how long Boyd’s commute is. If you wanted to do piercings here, I bet he’d love to work closer to home.” 

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, considering. He remembered Boyd from high school - calm and steady with a bright, warm smile even despite having lost his sister. “Okay. You said a few.”

“I mean, I should let you find your own employees,” Scott said quickly, spinning so he was facing away.

Stiles glanced at the ceiling searching for the patience he was rapidly losing. “Who, Scott?”

“Lydia Martin is a tattoo artist,” Scott said quickly, still facing away. “I know you and her have… a history but, from what I’ve seen, her work is really good.”

Stiles stared at Scott’s back with wide eyes, blinking rapidly. “Lydia Martin? Five foot three, strawberry blond, took my virginity and then told me she hated me, that Lydia Martin?”

“That one. Turns out she’s a banshee, by the way,” Scott said, turning back to Stiles with a sheepish smile. “I’m just giving you options, man.”

Stiles shook the disbelief from his face. “Okay, so Boyd, Lydia, that’s two. That’s a couple, not a few.” 

“Ah,” Scott pressed his lips together into a thin line and nodded slowly. “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you this.” 

“Are you getting off on this or something?” Stiles threw the rag at Scott. “Is giving really obscure answers to questions your kink or something? Just fucking tell me.”

Scott looked towards the door for a long moment and then back at Stiles. “Peter Hale’s back in town.”

Oh.


	4. Master and Apprentice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief mention of a past sexual interaction between Stiles and Peter!

Stiles felt a werewolf enter the shop and made a point _not_ to turn around. “We’re not open yet,” he said coolly, his eyes carefully focused on the floor where he was mopping.

“Oh, I’m aware.” The voice sent shivers down his spine and made his throat clench.

Of course it was him. Stiles froze and exhaled, gripping the mop handle tightly in both of his hands. “What do you want, Peter?”

The last time Stiles and Peter had crossed paths it had been for one very brief – but very enjoyable – night after a tattoo convention. Stiles liked to blame alcohol and peer pressure, but he’d gone willingly to the werewolf’s hotel room, and everything that had happened once that door had closed had been very much consensual.

That had been four years ago. Stiles had intentionally checked the rosters of every tattoo convention he’d been to since to make sure Peter wasn’t going to be there. It had been a mistake, and one he didn’t intend to make again.

Peter stepped forward, hands tucked into his pockets, brightly colored elemental half-sleeve crawling its way up from his wrist to his elbow.“I’d like a job.”

Stiles spun around, the mop clattering to the floor. “I’m sorry, did you just say you want a job? You? Peter Hale? Award winning, ridiculously talented, painfully cocky _Peter Hale_ just asked _me_ for a job?”

There was a reason Stiles had distanced himself from the Hale Pack, from Beacon Hills, from magic altogether. And yet here Peter was, smirking at Stiles with sparkling blue eyes, enhanced by the blue of the V-neck he wore. And because Stiles’s body was a _fucking traitor_ it was impossible to not remember how Peter’s hands had felt on him.

“I got my start in this shop,” Peter said wistfully, his blue eyes twinkling in the bright lights Stiles and Noah had finished putting up the night before. The wolf stepped forward, running his fingers lightly over the freshly dusted counter, his eyes never leaving Stiles. “She’s the reason I’m as good as I am, you know.”

Stiles quirked one eyebrow briefly. “But apparently not good enough for your sister to save.”

Peter cocked his head to the side, eyebrows drawing together. His tongue darted out of his mouth to wet his lips before he spoke. “Is that what you think happened? That Claudia, my mentor, Talia’s _Emissary_ wasn’t good enough to save?”

Stiles chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Why else wouldn’t Talia give her the bite once she got sick?”

Peter folded his hands in front of him. Stiles could feel the weight of his gaze as he stared. “I’ve followed your career, you know. You certainly got her gifts in that regard. Your father is an incredibly competent sheriff, your mother was one of the most brilliant women I’ve ever met. You aren’t stupid, Stiles. You know the answer to that question.”

Anger churned in his gut. For years he’d blamed the Hales for not saving his mom, for years he’d been angry with Talia for not giving his mom the bite to save her. The Alpha wasn’t opposed to medicinal bites – Scott and Erica were evidence of that. Glancing at the walls, the floor, the counter, anywhere but Peter, Stiles muttered, “The bite can’t fix everything.”

“And it wouldn’t have saved Claudia,” Peter agreed, the sound of footsteps the only indication that he’d moved. Suddenly, Stiles could feel Peter in front of him, a warm hand on his arm.

Reluctantly, Stiles turned to look at Peter, whose face was a somber mask. “But if it would have, Talia would have done it in a heartbeat. It was _Claudia_ who turned her down.”

Stiles turned to look at the hand on his arm for a long time, letting himself process that anger. It had been one of _many_ sticking points on his return to Beacon Hills. Returning to pack lands and pack politics and all of the things he’d avoided dealing with for the last ten years. “Why do you want to work here, Peter? You could work anywhere.” He didn’t move his eyes from Peter’s hand, the werewolf rubbing his thumb gently from side to side against the skin of Stiles’s bicep. “I’m a werewolf, Stiles.” The hand slowly crawled its way from Stiles’s bicep up to his shoulder, and then across to run two fingers gently around the curve of Antares’ tail. Stiles shivered again, finally looking up at the werewolf’s face. “I’d like to be home. With my pack.”

Stiles pointedly flicked his eyes in a circle. “Not much of your pack here.” He didn’t move though, poignantly aware of the wolf’s hand on his neck.

“Just one,” Peter said gently, cupping Stiles’s cheek.

“I’m not pack,” Stiles said, lip curling. “Not Talia’s.”

“Scott’s then? Beacon Hills’ very own True Alpha.” Peter’s other hand had settled at his hip, and Stiles could feel the heat that radiated off the werewolf.

“I’m not in any pack,” Stiles scoffed, turning his face into Peter’s palm, nuzzling against it. He should, for all intents and purposes, pull away, tell Peter to get fucked, and go back to cleaning up the tattoo shop, but emotions where Peter was concerned were so... _complicated_.

“You’re the strongest mage in Beacon Hills, Stiles. McCall is your step-brother. I can understand why joining Talia’s pack wouldn’t interest you, but being in a pack would make you stronger.”

Stiles blinked, shaking himself out of the haze of desire for Peter and stepping away from the wolf with an incredulous shake of his head. “I don’t do magic, Peter.”

Peter frowned, tucking his hands back in his pockets. “That’s surprising. Your mother was...world renown for more than just her tattooing, you know.”

Stiles shrugged. “There’s nothing in my life that I need magic for. I don’t need a pack, I don’t need magic. I just need this.” He raised both of his hands and gestured around the shop.

Peter’s frown didn’t ease, but he nodded. “I suppose that’s your choice, then.”

“It is.” Stiles repeated. “And I made it a long time ago.” He reached up to run a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly and pushing it to the side, “And if you’re going to work here, I would appreciate it if you could just drop the issue.”

The sly smirk returned to Peter’s lips, along with that dangerous twinkle in his eye. “Whatever you say, boss.” He winked.


	5. Mischief Aside #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anytime you see the story from a perspective that’s not Stiles, we’re calling those a “Mischief Aside” These are my (Ceej!) chance to explore other POVs, and Caden’s chance to work on other amazing art pieces. It’s not impossible for y’all to get art to go with these, but think of them as a chance for Caden to recharge and come back with even more amazing art!!

Peter tapped his pencil against the table, staring down at the drawing for what felt like the hundredth hour. This particular client was _picky_. Most of his clients were, and he came with a reputation for living up to those standards. That reputation, unfortunately, meant that he was often up at absurd hours of the night staring at drawings of woodland creatures. Something about the deer was off, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

As he leaned in to erase the neck and forelegs for the seventh time his phone rang. He glanced at it for a long moment before tapping the screen to answer the call and turn on speaker phone. No one else was in the shop anyway. “Derek, always lovely.”

“Come let me in.” The phone call ended as quickly as it had begun.

Peter’s eyebrows drew together and he set down his pencil. A phone call from Derek was odd enough. His nephew showing up, this late in the evening, at his shop? Nearly unheard of. Peter unlocked the front door and let Derek in, eyeing him warily as he headed wordlessly back towards Peter’s booth. “Hello to you too.” Peter said, kicking at Derek’s foot as he dropped into his own chair, turning back to the desk where he’d been sketching. “What brings you all the way to San Francisco so late in the evening.” 

“Stiles is reopening Mischief.”

Peter set his pencil down and spun to face his nephew. Derek was sitting in the massage chair backwards, his hands folded in front of his face, eyes visible over the tops of his knuckles. Peter let the words process in his mind for a few minutes.

“Why are you telling me?” he finally asked, letting out a long, slow breath. 

“I don’t know.” Derek answered, leaning back, letting his arms fall to rest more naturally on his knees. 

Peter’s eyes drifted down to Derek’s wrist where black lines curved into an ornate H. He remembered when he’d found out that Derek had gotten the tattoo and from whom. “How did you find out?”

“Noah mentioned it, at work,” he replied, reaching with his left hand to cover the tattoo on his right wrist. It wasn’t quite shame that brought him to cover it up. Peter was fairly sure Derek still felt guilty, though. 

Peter had done Derek’s first tattoo, back when he was still learning how to tattoo werewolves. Derek had been young and eager and willing to go to extraordinary lengths to get the tattoo done back before someone had helpfully pointed out that mixing wolfsbane with your ink got the same effect with a lot less...fire. 

The second tattoo, the one on his wrist, he’d come home from a vacation with one day. Peter wouldn't have thought twice about him getting a tattoo from someone other than himself if Derek hadn’t been so damn cagey about the whole thing. It had taken nearly a year for Peter to get it out of Derek that _Stiles_ had done the tattoo.

Stiles, who wouldn’t so much as _look_ at a member of the Hale family after Claudia’s death. Stiles, who had been a cherished part of their pack. Stiles, who had pushed them all away and ran away from Beacon Hills the first chance he got and barely looked back. To find out that, of all people, _Derek_ was the one he kept in touch with had stung more than Peter had anticipated.

And then, there was that night in New York City after the convention. There was Stiles, bright and talented and beautiful and _a challenge_. Peter had never felt more drawn to another person in his life and he wasn’t sure if it was the similarities to his mother - drive and passion and artistic talent and that laugh - or the way he radiated power in a way the mundane world would never be able to notice. Either way, it had been a night Peter would never – and would never want to – forget. 

“Does he know you told me?” Peter finally asked, turning back around to look at the sketch. It was clear now. The neck and forelegs had been fine, but it’s eyes had been too small. He clicked his tongue and went back to work.

“No,” Derek replied. “I just...thought you’d want to know. When I was younger you used to talk about reopening the shop.”

Peter nodded, catching his tongue between his teeth as he sketched the eyes once again, making them larger. He ignored the implications that his brain was now filling in the color with a warm amber brown. “It wasn’t mine to reopen,” he murmured, setting the pencil down and sitting back, studying the deer. “But, I am glad I know, so thank you.”

Derek got up off the chair, reaching out to squeeze at Peter’s shoulder as he did. Peter waved halfheartedly with his left hand, his mind rolling over the information and the deer and those amber brown eyes. “Uncle Peter.” 

Peter turned over his shoulder to look at Derek, who stared at him with serious hazel eyes and a perpetual frown. “Yes, Derek?”

“Don’t chase him away,” his nephew said, licking his lips. “Please.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Why do you assume I’m chasing anyone? Or that I’m even going to do anything with this information?”

Derek’s frown shifted into an unamused grimace and he shook his head. “Just give him space if he wants it.” He headed towards the door. 

When Peter could no longer hear him he flicked the lamp off near his desk and sat back against the backrest of his chair, staring up at the ceiling. He’d worked all over the world. He’d been the guest of honor at conventions and tattooed celebrities. He’d won awards and been in magazines. None of it mattered now, though.

Peter should think twice about giving it all up for a pair of amber brown eyes and a chance to go home, to work at Mischief Tattoo again. 

He should, but he wasn’t going to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Come See us on Tumblr! ](https://mischieftattoo.tumblr.com)


	6. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> set before the start of Mischief Tattoo/chapter 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE** : addiction, unconscious self-mutilation, panic attacks, rehab, thoughts of relapse, loneliness

It was a bad day.

It started with gasping in frozen air, lungs forcing breaths out into the cold atmosphere of his tiny apartment. It misted in the low temperature, puffs appeared and disappeared rapidly from his mouth. Fear churned in his veins, locking his limbs as they grasped at his bedsheets, fingers gathering the sheets into bunches, squeezing tight enough to feel the press of his fingers into his palm.

When he could breathe again, his first thought was: _Fuck_.

He must have missed the gas bill _again_ for the heat to be out. He was pretty sure it was illegal for the gas company to _actually_ turn off the gas now that it was starting to get cold, but maybe because it was only October it didn’t matter. He let his eyes flutter closed and laid back against the pillow. He must have had a nightmare, because his pillow was soaked with cold sweat, and his sheets felt dirty under his skin. Distantly he felt the sting of haphazard cuts on the skin of his arms, the same sensation present on his neck and chest, but to a lesser degree.

Ignoring the aches and pains he climbed out of bed, wincing at the scent of his sheets. He pulled his comforter off and tossed it away from the bed. With a yawn, he opened the tiny utility closet and threw his other sheets in the washer to clean. He grabbed a towel hanging out of his dryer. Slowly, he made his way towards the bathroom.

He double-checked his body wash and shampoo-conditioner bottles. Last time he’d showered he thought they were getting low, but naturally he forgot when he went grocery shopping last weekend. There wasn't much in either bottle, but enough to get by with sparing use. He carefully avoided the mirror when he entered and exited the room, leaving to grab clean clothes and coming back to actually start the shower.

With the heat out until Stiles got around to calling the gas company and begging them to turn it back on, the shower was a nice counterpoint to the cold of his apartment. The warm water cascaded down his back, comforting him more than most things did these days.

But naturally, because Stiles had pissed off some deity somewhere, the water heater had to break.

One moment to the next, Stiles found himself yelping as the blissfully warm water turned into freezing rivulets on his skin. His body, which had begun to relax with the heat, tightened immediately at the change, his muscles cramping sharply.

Stiles had to sit to relieve his freshly sore and aching muscles, shivering in the cold water and air. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but eventually, he got up and briskly finished cleaning himself. Still shivering, he exited the shower and searched for his clothes. As he was sliding his shirt onto his arms, he caught his own eyes in the mirror, dark and haunted in his almost gaunt face.

He was unable to avoid the rest of his body now that he’d seen the mirror. Stiles was almost skeletal, tall and lanky as he’s always been, but looking unfed and a breeze away from falling over. The stinging from when he woke looked like cat scratches, tiny, barely cutting his skin.

Except, Stiles didn’t have a cat. He barely had enough money left to pay the rent, let alone pay for an animal.

The scratches were random, first on his arms then his chest where they were more shallow until finally, he saw the raw lines of red adorning his neck, cutting across the scorpion that had once been such a comfort. His eyes lingered on Antares, and he ignored the swell of emotions inside of him.

He knew if he looked closer he would see pockmark scars within the soft skin of his elbow, and even closer he would see them on the skin between his fingers from when he’d started trying to hide it. He dragged his gaze from his hands and arms, willing himself to ignore the thirst in his veins at the thought of what caused those marks.

He ran a hand haphazardly though his too-long hair. The top was long enough it was attempting to halfheartedly curl. Thankfully, it was no longer sweaty and though greasy like the strands must’ve been before his shower. With effort, and a renewed sense of self-pity, he managed to turn away from the mirror, and his appearance.

Wandering out from the bathroom, Stiles reached for a beat up old hoody, staring at it for a long time before slipping it on. He’d stolen it from Scott years ago, just before he’d left Beacon Hills, and somehow he still had it despite everything. He zipped it up and pulled the hood up over his cold ears, searching for his phone.

Stiles stared at the blank screen of his phone and swore again, dropping onto his bare mattress as he fumbled for his charger, plugging in the phone. He scrubbed his hands over his face and then looked around the studio. It was tiny and cold and cluttered.

What the fuck he was doing here?

Portland was supposed to have been a change of pace from the slightly suffocating stares of small-town citizens. Until he moved, he’d been unable to get away from their judgemental glances, from everyone knowing everything about his life. Small towns came with expectations and pressures that Stiles had never done well under.

At first, it had been great that the city had plenty of tattoo shops to apprentice at and learn the skill of inking art and words to life on a person's skin. Of course, now he’s beyond apprenticeships and needing discipline, masterfully marking art onto the canvas of blank skin. Now, people know his name and his work. They know his face, too.

Some of them even know him biblically.

It was coming up on ten years since he’d left Beacon Hills behind. He’d spent what, a year in Sacramento before deciding he needed to leave California? Stiles couldn’t remember the exact dates anymore. Now, though, Stiles felt like his life was at a standstill.

Once, the art of tattooing had done it for him. Once, he’d lost himself in the pages of sketchbooks and the hum of machines, watching bundles of needles leave permanent marks on skin. Once, that had been enough. That felt like a long time ago now, though. It was before he’d stopped checking in with his dad, Scott and Derek as often, before _that night in New York_ with _him_. Before he found a new way to numb the ache inside of him, and before it had cost him his job.

_“Get clean, 6 months clean and you can come back, Stiles,” his manager had said. “I can’t have that shit in my shop. You’re too good. I know a good rehab.”_

That had been a year ago. It had taken him three months to even consider getting clean. He’d watched his life fall to pieces, started to run his bank account dry, but kept fiending for his next high. 9 months ago he’d finally broken down, called – of all people – Derek fucking Hale and begged for help.

He’d fallen into the deep end the moment he began to crave the absent-minded headspace given to him by drugs; never really caring what was in the syringe as long as it soothed the raging beast of his non-stop thoughts. He could feel it now, desire crawling along his veins for relief from cognizance - a break from his anxiety-ridden mind.

He knew, sadly, that he had to stay strong. Going back to drugs, or even something more benign, like drinking, was just another method of numbing the pain. Pain of losing his mother, of watching her death nearly destroy his father, the pain of loneliness, of a desire for something – someone – he shouldn’t want. There was also the ache inside him that Stiles suspected (much to his chagrin) was unused magic, begging to be let out. Stiles didn’t dare.

Magic had only ever caused him _more_ pain.

Call to the gas company momentarily forgotten, Stiles left his phone on the nightstand and wandered around the room, picking up clothes and tossing them into the hamper haphazardly. He knew there was nothing in his apartment (he didn’t even keep painkillers around anymore) but the part of him that craved the high told him to search anyway.

Stiles froze when he grabbed it; a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, pages glued into each other and yellowed with age. A square hole had been cut out of it when he was in middle school; desperate to keep any scrap of his mother safe from his father’s drunken vandalism of anything reminding him of her. He’d long removed those keepsakes from the book, but kept it as a hidden nook for future items of importance.

Though vacant now, the last thing Stiles had cloistered here was drugs.

Stiles felt warmth spread across his face and a splash of liquid hit the delicate pages held in his hands. Tears. Stiles felt them well in his eyes, blurring his vision, and watched detachedly as more drops darkened the paper. It felt like something cracked inside his chest, sorrow leaking out of his chest, a pathetic emotion coloring his thoughts as he cried with vigor, openly sobbing on the dirty floor of his bedroom.

His weakness in the face of his impulses and his fear of his own demons, brought to the forefront of his mind, made panic quicken his breath. His eyes widened as his anxiety solidified, adrenaline bursting through his veins, and rapid-fire rise and fall forced air painfully through his lungs. Stiles needed solace, but he’d sworn off his go-to method, and the anguish of his weak fortitude is fizzing his thoughts out of his mind.

Drugs would have softened the edges of his consciousness. They would have taken him out of this shitty apartment and just let him breathe. But, the drugs had also cost him two years of his life and nearly his career.

He knew he couldn’t go back so even as his brain was screaming for him to turn back to them, it was the desire to return to his art that anchored him.

Unable to think, unable to process anything other than the pity and flagellation he felt towards himself, Stiles fumbled with his phone and squished himself between his bed and nightstand, finding idle comfort in the small space.

His sight still obscured by tears and heart racing, Stiles clumsily called Derek. Derek had listened to him rant and ramble about everything from idle info-dumping to vents about his job situation.

It had been Derek that had finally driven Stiles to rehab and left him there six months ago, and Derek who picked him up 30 days later. He was so close. Stiles had been clean five months, all he had to do was make it through another month and he could go back to his life; back to tattooing, back to normal.

Derek would know how to help him.

Derek picked up far faster than Stiles was used to. Stiles didn’t let that stop him from immediately launching into what he had to say. His voice was shaky, warbly from his tears and weak with his panic. He wasn’t entirely sure what all he said but let himself relax now that Derek was there.

Vaguely, Stiles heard a voice telling him to breathe, and he followed with deep inhales and trembling exhales. It was only after a minute of breathing like this, lungs no longer screaming for oxygen and brain fuzzy with his exhaustion, that Stiles finally paid attention to the voice on the other side of the phone call.

The tone and weariness were familiar. The calming words had been spoken with routine, as if the person had formed a habit of calming someone from panic attacks. Derek was great at a lot of things, but he hadn’t yet mastered the art of long-distance panic-attack reduction. It wasn’t until he heard a worn, “Son?” uttered in the ringing silence that he realized what he’d done.

He’d called his dad. His _dad_. Who didn’t know anything about Stiles’s predicament in Portland, about his nightmares or him losing his job or the drugs or--

 _Fuck, he’d called his dad_.

“Stiles?” his dad called, concern dripping off his voice in the quiet.

Stiles began crying anew, still off-balance from the panic attack. He might have said he was sorry, though never for what. When his dad asked, Stiles avoided answering.

“Son, whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Guilt pooled in Stiles’s gut, knowing how disappointed his father would be if he ever found out that Stiles had gone and gotten into drugs despite all the warnings.

Ignoring this fear, Stiles realized how badly he _wanted_ comfort from his father, for more kind words and to rekindle the one bond that Stiles had never truly doubted.

He missed his friends and companionship. He missed his job. He missed having more than just a quick fuck every now and then with someone he didn’t know, that ended almost as quickly as it began.

Moving away from Beacon Hills had been a blessing in many forms, but it had inevitably distanced Stiles and his dad. Now he was sitting alone in his tiny apartment, with no one he considered himself close to in the entire city, craving something he couldn’t have and dying for a hug.

Maybe… Maybe being so far from all he’d known hadn’t been a good idea. Maybe it was time.

His thoughts strayed to a purple storefront, to elegant letters. _Mischief Tattoo_.

“Dad, I... I think It might be time for me to come home..”


	7. Packyard Barbecue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter!! Sorry for the delay, life got busy. Our best guess is that we'll be posting once every 2-3 weeks for the foreseeable future.

Stiles leaned into the living room to glance at the back of his dad’s head. “You sure you don’t want to come, Dad? Scott said I needed to make sure to invite you at least three times.”

“Scott never grew out of worrying too much,” Noah said, turning to look at Stiles, his eyebrows drawing together. “Why do you want me to go so bad anyway?”

Stiles shrugged. “Just...feel like I don’t know anyone anymore.”

“You’re going to _your brothers_ house,” Noah rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, to his packyard barbecue.”

“Has Scott heard you call it that?”

Stiles grinned. “Not yet.”

“Get out of here. Have a good time. I assume at some point in your life you have had friends? Those people I met when I visited you weren’t just paid actors, right?”

“I really need to get my own apartment if my own father is going to spout such _rude_ things at me all the time.” Stiles pressed a dramatic hand over his chest and headed out of the house towards his rickety old jeep.

Scott had acquired the house that he’d grown up in from his mom when Melissa had moved in with Noah. The route between the houses was so far ingrained in Stiles’s memory that not only was he sure he could make the drive incredibly intoxicated, _he’d done it._

Stiles pulled up to the curb and stared at the house, squeezing the steering wheel tightly and steeling himself.

He’d never really been _shy_ per se, but this was a big deal. This was his best friend, his step-brother, the True Alpha, introducing him to his pack. Some of them Stiles already knew, but some of them were complete strangers.

Chances were, all of them had heard his name at some point. Either as that weird kid whose mom died, or the tattoo artist from Beacon Hills (one of three, apparently) who made it big. If he was lucky, none of them had heard some of the less flattering stories from his time in Seattle.

And none of them knew about most of what he’d been through in the last year. While cleaning up the shop, he and Scott had talked a bit about him losing his job and that being a deciding factor in his decision to come home. Part of Stiles wanted to tell Scott about everything; the drugs, the rehab, the loneliness that came after, but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t risk that it got back to his dad.

He climbed out of the jeep and headed towards the house, hand raised to knock before the door opened suddenly. The smile spread across his face before he had even realized it was starting, and some of his nerves melted away as suddenly he was tugged into a firm hug.

“Derek, what are you doing here?” Stiles asked, in no hurry to break the hug. “Did you change packs?”

After a moment, Derek released Stiles, grinning back at him brightly. “No, I think my mom would kill me.” Derek rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly. “My um, boyfriend is in Scott’s pack.”

Stiles’s eyebrows shot up. “Boyfriend?”

Derek nodded, and Stiles watched the blush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I would have told you sooner but you’ve had a lot going on.” Which was, of course, the understatement of the century. “C’mon. I want you to meet him.”

Stiles followed Derek through the house. He’d been to the house a few times over the last week, but he hadn’t met any of the rest of the pack yet. He tried to keep the smile on his face bright, and hoped that he wasn’t too obviously nervous.

He was used to hiding his emotions around _humans_. Doing it around werewolves was going to take some getting used to.

Scott waved at Stiles from the grill, where he stood flipping burgers and sausages. Nearby, at the patio table under a wide umbrella were four women, two of which were familiar to Stiles. Lydia Martin – the strawberry blond goddess who’d so rudely taken his virginity and broke his heart in one fell swoop – sat sipping something bright red and blended. Next to her was Erica Reyes, who no longer wore the same terrified, exhausted face she’d had in high school. Clearly the bite had treated her well. Stiles could only see the other two women from the back. Both of them had dark hair, one tied up into a bun and the other long and shiny.

“Stiles.” Derek nudged him and drew his attention away, pulling him further into the backyard to where more of the pack was tossing a lacrosse ball around with well-worn crosses. Stiles recognized a few of them; Vernon Boyd, who he’d met with earlier in the week about working at the shop, and Isaac Lahey, who’d also gone to school with him and Scott. There were three others tossing the ball around, two of whom were entirely unfamiliar and one who –

“Hey Scott!” Stiles called, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes?” Scott asked, stepping around the grill and raising an eyebrow.

“Since when are we friends with Jackson Whittemore?”

Most of the pack laughed, and Stiles turned around to see Jackson roll his eyes and toss the ball to a man Stiles didn’t know. “Nice to see you too, Stilinski.”

“It was a serious question.” Stiles half-heartedly whined, still grinning. He saw Derek tug the young man Stiles hadn’t recognized towards him. “Stiles, this is Jordan.”

“Stiles?” Jordan asked warily. “Stiles Stilinski?”

“Do you know any other Stiles?” Stiles asked with a raised brow. “I’d love to meet them.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jordan, as in your boss’s son.”

“Oh so _that’s_ a Stiles.” The last unfamiliar person said. They had chin-length brown hair, and inquisitive brown eyes. “Nobody ever really had a good answer for me.”

Something about this person felt different than the others. Something about them put Stiles on edge in a way he couldn’t quite explain. “Who are you?”

“I’m Malia.” They said, equally wary. “What are you?”

Stiles laughed, “I’m just a human.”

“Liar.” Malia said, shrugging. “I’m a coyote.”

Stiles nodded. Werecoyotes were rare. They felt different than normal wolves and...whatever it was Jordan was. One of the women at the table near the house felt off too, not quite a wolf. Slipperier. Trickier. “I’m just a human.” He said again, holding up his hands.

“He’s a mage.” Derek corrected, his chin hooked over Jordan’s shoulder, arms locked around the other man’s waist. “He just likes to pretend he’s not.”

Malia narrowed their eyes at him. “So you’re the emissary?”

“That’s the plan!” Scott called from the grill.

“That’s _Scott’s_ plan.” Stiles corrected, loudly. “Now if we’re done with the interrogation, I’m starving.”

He headed back towards the patio, mildly annoyed that he hadn’t even made it five minutes into the get-together without his magic coming up. He probably should have seen it coming; this was Scott’s pack. These people were one step from being family. Most of them probably wondered what he was, where he’d been, why he came home. It was bound to be asked. He’d just naively hoped it might take longer than 5 minutes.

“Welcome home, Stiles,” Lydia said as he approached. Her lips were painted bright red and her eyes were as beautifully green as they’d always been. “Scott’s been excited about you coming home.”

“He better have been.” Stiles said, trying to push away his annoyance and focus on getting through the rest of this without incident. It was a lot. A lot of people, a lot of faces – new and old – conversation and noise and laughter.

Things he hadn’t dealt with sober in a long time.

“Stiles, have you met Allison and Kira yet?” Erica asked, motioning to the two dark-haired women who’d been at the table. “Kira’s a kitsune.”

Kira, the one with long, shiny black hair smiled sweetly at him. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Scott talks about you. Derek too, when he’s around.”

Stiles shot a look across at Scott who just grinned and shrugged. “I’ve been uh, a little out of touch recently, so you’ll have to forgive me for not knowing as much about you as you know about me.”

The last person – Allison, apparently – shaded her eyes as she looked up at Stiles. “Your dad talks about you too.”

“Are you a deputy too? If you’re both off work, and Dad’s at home watching a Kings game, who’s manning the station?”

Allison looked at Jordan who shrugged back at her. “Not our problem!” She announced.

Stiles smiled. He liked her. Scott called them a moment later to start getting food, and Stiles let himself relax. This was what he’d come home for. To be surrounded by friends and family and people who cared. He’d come home because he needed this.

He needed a pack.


End file.
